


Blood Offering

by twitchbell



Category: Robin of Sherwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchbell/pseuds/twitchbell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Owen of Clun's captain, Grendel, became bound to the sorcerer Gulnar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Offering

The forest lay featureless, the trees black shadows with only the skeletal tips of branches visible. They groped skyward, seeming to snatch at the moon as she rode the night sky, dappled by sable clouds. A cold vapour lay on the ground and the night sounds were few and muffled as if the dark and the mist conspired to mute them. There was a chill to the air that seeped slowly through the grey woollen folds of Grendel's cloak. He huddled deeper into it. Waiting.

There was a lupine quality to him, even in stillness, a sense of savagery only part suppressed. The dark hair was worn long, the face pale, the features aquiline and his eyes were possessed of a cold, hard light as they sought any movement amongst the trees. He knew nothing of the reasons behind the summons to this place and time yet still he waited. It was enough that he had been called.

\------

It had been eighteen months since Clun Castle came under attack from Robert of Huntingdon and his 'thousand' men. Eighteen months since Grendel's own position of Captain to Lord Owen had been suddenly and dramatically terminated. He had reckoned his chances that day as Huntingdon took his Lord hostage - the castle breached, the Champion he had trained turning on his Lord - and found them wanting, even if Owen of Clun should by chance survive the attack.

Escape had been all that was in his mind - let others fight who would - but Owen had died early and the portcullis that drove the life from him also served to trap the garrison. They had turned on each other, then, all those petty Marcher Lards, and fought over the successor to the Lord of Clun. Clun's own men-at-arms had thrown in their lot behind Lord Hywel and, when Hywel had finally emerged bloody but victorious, had demanded vengeance on their Captain, who had singularly failed in his duty to protect both Lord and Castle and had been taken - at some cost to their own lives - in the act of trying to scale the castle walls.

And Lord Hywel, whose order it had been that Grendel be taken alive if possible, had not spared him out of affection, but out of black malice in remembrance of times past when Lord Owen's Champions had defeated his, and Grendel - who had trained them all - had sneered across at him from those hell-dark eyes and laughed in his face. For now that Hywel had declared himself the new Lord of Clun and was drunk with victory and in the mood for sport, it seemed to him entirely fitting that Grendel should provide it. In the arena as part of the blood game.

"Owen threatened you with this before when you failed him. Perhaps he meant it. Maybe not. But if he were alive now he'd not hesitate. And neither shall I. " Hywel looked down into the arena, jubilant at the violence to come, and under the flickering torchlight his red hair took on the hue of fire, of blood, of death.

And the men joined in his laughter, jeering, spitting, hurling abuse and recrimination. Like a pack of wild animals they followed their chosen leader in his whims and foibles. Besides, what cause had any of them to care overmuch for Grendel's fate? Whilst he wielded power on Lord Owen's behalf he had commanded a certain respect, but never liking. And Grendel, taking up the so familiar sword and dagger, stared contemptuously up at them and felt only hatred back.

But then it became plain that this was to be no ordinary blood game where one man matched his strength one against the other, for his opponents were to be sent against him two at a time. They were men he had commanded once, perhaps even taught. Men who had seen him fight and knew all the moves he might make. And if he could dispose of them, there were others waiting to take their place. Men with twisted, hostile faces, hungry for death. His death. And beyond them Lord Hywel gloating, fuelling their hatred.

Then Grendel knew fear and knew too that he would not be allowed to walk away from this arena. In the end they would bring him down when he grew exhausted, overwhelming him by their sheer number. But there was no time to think further, only time to block, parry, duck, swerve, weave... thrusting and striking where he got the chance, all the time on the defensive, and all the time knowing that he could not win. That he would not be allowed to win.

There were four lying dead in the arena, a fifth still attacking and a sixth - newly recruited from the spectators and with fresh heart and strength - about to join him when Gulnar chose to make his entrance.

Those who watched fell silent suddenly, shrieks of encouragement dying on their lips, Those who fought lowered their weapons, moved uneasily to one side, licking nervous lips and leaving their adversary crouched defensively at the far end of the arena.

One corner of Gulnar's mouth twitched, as it often did when he was amused, and it seemed that he found Grendel's dilemma to his liking. For long moments he studied the other's sweat-streaked and bloodied form; Grendel might have triumphed until now but his victory had been hard-won and not just in terms of injury. His breathing was laboured, his strength fading, but his eyes were still alive, lit with the flame of maddened blood-lust. And Gulnar smiled because it was just as he had suspected. He had always known Lord Owen's Captain was a cunning fighter, but he had been a cold, arrogant and merciless man who avoided the sorcerer and feared him like the rest. But now Gulnar could see for himself that at the core there lay a creature all of fire and instinct and he wanted very much to bind that to him to use as he would. He turned to Lord Hywel.

"Call your men off. I want him. "

Silence, and then everyone's eyes turned to Hywel. Would he have the nerve to deny the sorcerer?

"Why?" Hywel's demand seemed thin and subdued even to his own ears. "What do you want him for?"

"That's my business. Now do as I ask!" Gulnar's voice changed as he spoke the last, becoming stronger, and infinitely more menacing. And those who heard it shuddered, remembering his powers and how his voice had urged Lord Owen on to his destruction. All of those assembled there wished him dead, yet not one amongst them would have dared lift a finger to harm him.

Lord Hywel shrugged, as if Grendel's fate was only a little thing. "Take him then. " He said, as offhandedly as he dared, but Gulnar had already turned away as if certain of Hywel's co-operation anyway.

"Put down your weapons and come with me. " Gulnar ordered Grendel, his voice very soft now but no less compelling.

Grendel stared at him, the light of madness dying in his eyes only to be replaced by the chill of fear. He had no more love for Gulnar than any of the others, yet cold logic told him that he had no choice now to obey. To stay here was to be slaughtered by the swords of men who watched and waited - if Gulnar did not exact revenge first for being refused - and Grendel was young enough to want to cling still to life if he could not have death with honour.

In silence he followed Gulnar from the arena.

\------

Grendel's eyes flickered with quickened interest as he detected movement in the shadows before him. He looked up.

The figure that sidled into the clearing was well known to him, moving with a curious, loping gait, so soft-footed that he seemed almost to be floating on the skeins of mist that gathered about his robe. The moon gleamed down suddenly on his hairless skull and long pale limbs so that for a moment he appeared not flesh and blood at all but a grinning wraith.

Gulnar.

"Ah, Grendel." He crooned. "I knew you would come. If you lived still."

"Master." Grendel felt his skin crawl at the sound of that voice and yet savoured it. "I live to serve you."

He was sure in his own mind that Gulnar would have known had he been killed, but he had had small trouble surviving on his own. If you were fierce and cunning there was a living to be had in many places, and if you were skilled with a sword and used to command you could easily attract followers. When he felt Gulnar call him, Grendel had led his company toward Nottinghamshire and left them some few miles from this place. Whilst there were appearances to be maintained as long as he commanded them, he saw no need to take them into his confidence. They would not see him again unless it happened that they could prove useful to his Master.

"I have need of you, Grendel." Gulnar whispered, drawing closer and laying one thin white hand on the other's arm. "I have found a new path, a new god to follow and I would have you join me."

"Who is this god?"

"Fenris." Gulnar's tongue snaked over his lips as if the very taste of the name was to his liking. "He needs men to serve him. His is a mighty power, Grendel." He paused, twisting his head up slyly to gauge the other's reactions to his words. What he saw pleased him.

The interval between their last meeting and this had not damaged the bond created by Gulnar with such care and deliberation. Perhaps it had even strengthened it, Grendel might lead others but he would always follow Gulnar now. Blindly, down dark paths that knew no turning.

Dark paths - and who could tell what lay in wait at the ending?

\------

Grendel walked from the arena but it had been some weeks before he was able to move anywhere again. As far as the rest of the garrison was concerned his wounds, although relatively minor, festered despite treatment - and no one cared to check the truth of it. They were content to dismiss him from their thoughts and put their minds to the task of serving their new master. Grendel himself spent most of those weeks in a dark daze, comprehending little of what went on around him. And to him.

For it was Gulnar who tended him, aided by two trusted acolytes, and the herbs and potions he administered had purposes other than healing. Those given initially were intended to sap the strength and spirit. That Grendel was already nearing a state of exhaustion made the task easier and Gulnar saw to it that he was given just sufficient food and drink to keep him alive. His injuries, slight as they were, contributed toward further weakening him.

And then the nature of the potions changed. being now designed to leave his mind unfocussed, empty; like that he was vulnerable and Gulnar could mould the very nature of his thoughts.

Gulnar had ways enough to change a man's behaviour or inclinations, but the effects lasted only a short while. What he attempted now was infinitely more ambitious. It would take both time and patience to accomplish, yet he considered it worth it. If he succeeded, he would have gained himself a very useful tool: a killer and a captain of men, totally obedient and eager to serve, and faithful only to him.

So Gulnar mixed his potions, then muttered long and low into a mind he had carefully prepared. Painstakingly he filled it with all that was necessary for his purpose. And Grendel, when he was finally permitted to make a slow recovery, knew nothing of what had been done to him for his memory and awareness remained unaltered; that the colouring was now different did not register. He looked now solely to the man who had saved him, following his movements with watchful eyes. There was no fear in him, only the trust and blind devotion a dog might show. The notion amused Gulnar.

He began to test his servant, turning an him without warning, cutting him down if he presumed too much, but Grendel's response never varied. Momentarily disconcerted, he would fall silent and then shrug the words away, his loyalty to his master never wavering. And Gulnar smiled and was satisfied with his creation, for times were changing and Grendel was now to him a most valuable creature. He had been tamed, but one day Gulnar would let that beast within him loose.

Lord Hywel was not cast in the same mould as Lord Owen. Clun he had taken, but he was unable to carry total support with him, unlike the former Lord of Clun who had made himself the most powerful of the Marcher Lords so that King John himself courted his favours. And Gulnar would have been swept along with Owen, finding new worlds within his grasp. But Owen had had to die and now Gulnar must either be satisfied with what he had or else move on alone. And it didn't suit Gulnar's purposes at all to be tied forever to a castle buried in the Welsh Marches. He would go. Hywel might not like it, but he would have more sense than to try and stop him.

As Grendel recovered lost strength, so Gulnar divulged part of his thoughts. Not all, for Gulnar himself did not know the whole of them. His mind trod dark, elusive paths and not even Gulnar himself was fully aware of what personal demons lurked below the threshold of conscious thought. At times they rose to guide him to new and unseen destinations.

"Soon, Grendel, we shall leave this place." He promised his new servant, his eyes glittering with the promise of what the future might hold.

"And go where, Master?"

"Where we will. The world is ours for the taking. "

They left Clun Castle some two weeks later. Lord Hywel was not there to see them depart, having tried - unsuccessfully - the previous day to persuade Gulnar to stay before being dismissed with ominous threats of what would befall him should he continue to press his case. Hywel, memories of his predecessor ever in his mind, took the point and said no more.

There were some murmurs at Grendel's appearance, for few had seen him and most had assumed him dead. Yet although some spat curses to find him still living, others found a grim satisfaction at the sight of him bound to the sorcerer. They cursed - Grendel to his face, those who dared, and Gulnar behind his back - and most were glad to see them go. Even Hywel, who had wanted to use Gulnar's powers for his own advantage, had begun to feel the castle would be freer without his presence.

Gulnar and Grendel never looked back, leaving the Marches far behind them, dismissing the acolytes who would have followed and moving steadily into England itself. Gulnar seemed to know where he was going, and Grendel never needed to know. If he presumed to ask, he was curtly told to attend to his own role, that of protector and provider, and - shrugging off the rebuke - he would do just that. Not that he was often called upon to protect his master. Gulnar's appearance was unusual enough to be threatening in itself and the lean, wolfish aspect of his servant served equally to warn people away. All but the most foolhardy tended to keep their distance, probably also sensing the aura of dark power that clung to Gulnar. They ventured close only to offer food and drink, should these be demanded, and then only from a desire to have the demon and his servant gone as soon as possible.

The two of them drifted from village to village in such manner until the time came when Gulnar decreed a parting of the ways, wishing to go on alone in accordance with his own barely recognised purposes. For a moment he saw perturbation in his servant's face.

"Master, where shall I go?"

"Where you wish. But be ready. I shall call you, and when you hear me you must come to me."

"How shall I find you or know your call?"

Gulnar smiled and placed one light hand possessively on Grendel's head.

"You will know," he said.

\------

"We will destroy Herne." Gulnar purred softly. "We will bring him down through his own son - Robin of Sherwood." He watched, satisfied, as Grendel smiled, his eyes alight at the prospect of violence, of blood and death. "You must gather others to you and bring them to me. And then you will lead them, my Captain, as you led for Clun. Now kneel."

Grendel knelt, no mind left for disobedience or dissent.

"Do you forswear all allegiances save to Fenris?"

"I do." No hesitation in that ringing reply. How could there be? Fenris and Gulnar were one to him and he was bound to serve the latter by dark sorcery.

"Then release the beast within you." Gulnar hissed.

The moon broke briefly through the clouds and flickered down as Gulnar ripped back Grendel's cloak and tunic and then drew from the folds of his own robe the clawed pad of a wolf. Whether real or exact copy was hard to distinguish, but it was both sharp and cruel.

"Savage as the mighty wolf you are to serve, bone to bone, flesh to flesh and blood to blood." Gulnar intoned, and on the last he raked the claw down Grendel's shoulder in a single, savage stroke. Blood began to well darkly from the gashes and Gulnar smiled and began to chant softly in a language few cared to understand.

"The mark of Fenris. You belong to him now, and I, I am the Lord of the Mighty Wolf, Where I command you must obey!" For an instant his hands gripped the other's shoulders, his personal demon blazing down from his eyes and mad laughter bubbling through his lips as if at some vast private joke. "Owen of Clun called me servant, but I was his master." Gulnar breathed. "As I am yours - forever. You know that, don't you, Grendel?"

Grendel knew. If ever he had questioned it, this ceremony insured that he would no more. And that creature of fire and instinct which lay at the heart of him was now finally Gulnar's to control as he would. And Owen's death - had not Gulnar ordered and Owen obeyed, stepping forward to his own destruction? Oh yes, Grendel knew the truth of it, yet he was not afraid and was conscious only of awe as he knelt and gazed up at his master.

Gulnar smiled once more, seemingly satisfied by what he saw, then relaxed his grip and let his hands fall back to his side. "Clun had to die." He said. "A blood offering... so sad."

Grendel got slowly to his feet as Gulnar backed away. He merged into the shadowed depths of the forest with one final whispered warning on his lips.

"You owe me a life, Grendel. It would be well for you to remember that we can all be called upon to make the occasional sacrifice."

THE END


End file.
